


white shirt now red

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, Gun Violence, M/M, Pre-Slash, Shock, Spy Stiles, Trust, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27447400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: The lock snicks open and Stiles stumbles through the door, shutting it swiftly but softly behind him. He knows they were right behind him. He can only hope he didn’t leave a blood trail that will guide them straight to his door.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 21
Kudos: 215
Collections: Sterek Reverse Quickie 2020





	white shirt now red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwistedAmusement13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedAmusement13/gifts).
  * Inspired by [ART - Hitman Stiles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389179) by [TwistedAmusement13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedAmusement13/pseuds/TwistedAmusement13). 



> many thanks to @seventhstar for the feedback!
> 
> posted for the Sterek Quickie Reverse Bang, in response to the terrific art by @TwistedAmusement13, which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389179)! Please go give it some love.

“Shit,” Stiles mutters, his eyes blurring as he fumbles the key into the lock. It refuses to turn. “Shit, shit,  _ shit _ .” 

The blood running in his eyes stings.  _ Leave it to a fucking AirBnB to give out the wrong key.  _ He slips his kit out of his pocket and picks the lock, the breath rattling in his chest as he listens for the sounds of his pursuit. 

The lock snicks open and Stiles stumbles through the door, shutting it swiftly but softly behind him. He knows they were right behind him. He can only hope he didn’t leave a blood trail that will guide them straight to his door. 

He looks up, scrubbing at his face with whatever bit of his shirt sleeve that's clean, and freezes.

“You’re in my house.”

_ Shit _ , Stiles thinks helplessly as he stares at the large, growling, devastatingly handsome werewolf in front of him. 

“I- sorry,  _ fucking _ AirBnB - I just-” 

The werewolf cocks his head, listening. “There are more of you.”

“No,” Stiles says, and holds his hands up, wincing as he notices they’re covered in blood. “Listen - I know you can hear it if I’m lying. I’m a good guy; I’m - I was - undercover, but I got found out, and those people coming after me are bad,  _ very _ bad, like,  _ kill me and laugh about it over shitty beer _ bad.”

Stiles steps toward the werewolf, hoping against all hope that he’s not about to get his head torn off. He’s not sure if that would be better or worse than what the men after him would do, if he’s honest. Trusting a strange werewolf is a gamble, but it’s the only card he has to play. 

The man opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, his brow furrowed in concern or confusion, but he’s cut off by the door slamming open.

Knowing in the abstract how fast an adult native-born werewolf can move and experiencing it in the flesh are two very different things, and Stiles finds himself abruptly behind his new friend’s significant bulk while a deep and extremely threatening growl fills the air. 

There’s the sound of a gun hitting the floor and a deeply gratifying and extremely fervent  _ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph _ , before the werewolf speaks. Stiles isn’t honestly quite sure how a werewolf’s vocal cords are capable of growling and speaking at the same time, but he isn’t too inclined to question it. Instead, he stays safely cowered behind the man’s broad, suddenly much hairier, back.

_ “Get. Out. Of. My. House.” _

Not particularly eloquent as these things go, Stiles decides, but then again who needs eloquence when you have fangs? It’s certainly effective, based on the sound of running footsteps that echo from the doorway. 

He waits, listening, feeling the shift of the werewolf’s muscles where they’re pressed against him. Finally he feels a deep exhale, and the form in front of him shifts, shrinking down into a reasonably normal human size. 

Not just a werewolf, Stiles thinks with a sense of hysteria. An  _ alpha _ . An alpha who is turning now to stare at him, head tipped like he’s listening to Stiles’ stampeding heart.

“Bathroom’s that way,” the stranger says blandly, gesturing first at Stiles’ blood-soaked self and then down the hallway. “I’ll get you some clothes. You’re too conspicuous like that.”

Stiles takes it as the out that it is, and shuffles obediently down the hall.

\--

He has to grip the sink for a moment, his knees shaking with the delayed hit of adrenaline. He bends over, resting his elbows on the porcelain, heedless of the blood smearing across the cold, white surface. He breathes slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth, willing his hands to stop shaking, his stomach to settle. He’s sure the wolf can hear him, but he seems content to let Stiles have his little meltdown in private. 

Stiles is grateful. 

He manages to strip himself out of his clothes without either falling over or ripping something. They’re stained beyond saving, his white button down smeared with red to the armpits and the grey wool of his vest and slacks dark with gore. He drops them unceremoniously on the floor, reaching into the shower to turn on the water and let it heat up.

There’s a moment when he catches sight of himself in the mirror where he doesn’t recognize the face that stares back. Dark hair and darker circles under his hollow eyes. A line of dried blood stretches across the curve of his cheekbone while a bruise blooms along the line of his jaw. 

He looks away. 

It’s easy to disarm himself as he removes his pants and socks and underwear. He doesn’t even have any wolfsbane on him; if the wolf on the other side of the wall wanted to take him out, he could. Could already have, easily. If he’s a threat to Stiles, there is absolutely fuck-all that Stiles can do about it, so there’s no point in keeping his gun within reach while he showers. 

The water is hot on his aching muscles, and he stands under it for a long, long time. He’ll offer some cash for the water bill, Stiles tells himself, letting it rinse the blood and the sweat and the smell of gunpowder from his skin until it’s pink and pristine as the day he was born. 

It helps, but it’s not enough. He feels unmoored, shaken to his core in a way he hasn’t felt in years. It’s because it all went so wrong.The whole deal was rotten from the start in ways he can trace back now through the work of months. He was set up, betrayed from within, and that means…

That means he can’t go back. That he’s on the run, that he doesn’t know who he can trust. 

Stiles leans a hand on the tile wall, closing his eyes and holding his breath as the water runs across his face. He has nothing left. He’s homeless, adrift. Alone.

He turns off the shower, steps out. At some point the wolf must have entered the bathroom because there’s now a set of socks, sweatpants, and a thermal shirt carefully folded on the sink. 

He should feel grateful, Stiles thinks, but all he feels as he towels himself dry and dresses himself in the new clothes is numb.

\--

The werewolf is sitting in an armchair in the living room when Stiles steps out of the hallway with his hands shoved into borrowed pockets and expression carefully neutral.

“You’re very good at that,” the wolf remarks casually, and Stiles blinks at him from where he stands. “Keeping a calm face when your heart is pounding out of your chest.”

Stiles almost laughs. He shrugs instead, body language easy and disarming. He’s left his weapons in the bathroom, carefully out of the way. His bloody clothes were nowhere to be found. 

“Casualty of the profession,” he says easily. The just wolf twitches an eyebrow. 

“And what exactly,” he asks, and his voice raises goosebumps on Stiles’ bare forearms, “is that profession?”

“Oh, you know,” Stiles shrugs again, toeing gently at the thick-weave carpet. It’s an unassuming apartment, but well-appointed. Not just a werewolf, then, not just an alpha - a  _ rich _ alpha, probably from an old family. Just Stiles’ luck. “Spy. Spook. Undercover agent. International Man of Mystery.” He winks. The wolf looks unimpressed. 

“A spy who was being chased by very human criminals, but who knows about supernatural creatures?” 

Stiles grimaces. “Not a casualty of the job, that.”

“Oh,” the wolf spreads his hands, “Do explain.”

Stiles is tired. He’s  _ so _ tired, wants nothing more than to drop the witty banter and lie down on this nice, clean, carpet and sleep for the next year. He feels… he feels  _ safe _ here in a way he really, really shouldn’t. 

“Best friend’s a werewolf,” he says, because if he lies the wolf will know anyway. “Made for a very exciting sophomore year of high school, I tell you what.”

The wolf watches him for a long moment, body preternaturally still. Listening, no doubt, to Stiles’ inner workings, the indicators of his self and sincerity. Finally he rises from the chair, stalking purposefully across the room to Stiles, where he circles around behind him. 

Stiles can feel all of the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. 

“Alright, little spy,” he says, and Stiles can feel the heat of the wolf’s body on his back. “What do you do now? Your cover’s blown, I assume that means you need to drop off the map, at least for a while.”

Stiles lets his eyes close in honest resignation. “Yeah,” he admits. “I’m pretty fucked.”

When he opens his eyes again, the wolf is in front of him. He’s not much taller than Stiles in actuality, but he’s broader through the  _ everything _ and must have at least fifty pounds on Stiles in just sheer muscle mass alone. Not to mention the ability to shift to the alpha form.

His eyes, Stiles thinks incongruously, are lovely - sea-green and gold-flecked, intelligent and kind.

“Stay here,” the wolf says abruptly, and Stiles thinks he’s almost as surprised by it as Stiles is. “Stay here,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “For a little while. For safety.”

_ Safety _ , Stiles thinks, is something he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time. 

And yet. He looks the wolf up and down, remembers the way he’d felt when the wolf had pushed him behind his own body and growled, protective. 

He’s so tired.

“For safety,” Stiles repeats, and nods.


End file.
